


Just the Basic

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Humor, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Near Death Experiences, Stupid Arguments, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 12:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9895883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: After a near-disastrous mission, Simmons makes a decision.Simmons wants Grif to work out. Grif does not want to work out. Things don’t really work out the way either of them planned.





	

“Retreat?” Simmons repeated Wash’ word, voice revealing his confusion. He froze, not taking further actions until the order was confirmed. Grif halted next to him.

“That means _get the fuck out_!” Tucker’s voice screeched through the radio. Simmons felt his muscles tense up. “They’re coming your way!” And then the maroon soldier bolted, just taking enough time to grab Grif’s arm to turn him around before sprinting back the hallway they had come from.

He could hear Grif call out from behind him and through the radio, “I thought you guys were taking care of them! What the fuck?!”

“Yeah, turns out we got it switched around. Bad guys are crawling in your place, our place is the empty one,” Tucker explained. There was a slight pant in his voice, indicating the other team was on the run as well. "Carolina just reported movement heading in your direction. A lot of it.”

Simmons looked down, as if suddenly remembering the rifle he was holding onto. “Shouldn’t we-?”

“You two are heavily outnumbered,” Wash cut in. “We’ll meet up with you outside to regroup.”

To be honest it was probably not about the numbers. After all, the plan had been to let Wash and Tucker attack the pirates while Grif and Simmons would raid the supplies from what was supposed to be an empty base. So in reality it was more about the number of pirates being too much for the Reds to handle and the Blues being too far away to help them right now.

Simmons tried not to let that thought hurt his confidence. Instead he quickened his pace because the Blues sounded a bit too serious about this, and Simmons would rather not get shot today. He could not hear any footsteps behind him, meaning he at least had some good distance between himself and the enemies.

When he rounded the third corner, entering yet another hallway, he suddenly stopped, boots screeching against the smooth floor. His plan was to try to barricade the door, just to add some extra time to their escape. But first he had to let Grif through the door as well. It wasn’t like he could trap his teammate with the enemies, no matter how much time that distraction would grant him, as Sarge would have liked to point out.

And of course Grif was slow as fuck so Simmons had to wait for him to appear even though his fingers were itching to push the weapon rack against the door handle now.

But Simmons waited, a few seconds more, muscles so tense they began to hurt. He opened the door again to see just how far behind Grif was.

Simmons saw that the hallway was empty.

Oh right.

He hadn’t heard any footsteps behind him.

Simmons’ hand flew to his helmet, immediately calling Grif’s radio. “ _GRIF?!_ ”

At least the call was answered instantly and a heavy panting could be heard, “Fuck – you’re – fast.” Grif heaved for breath after each word, a slight whine after the last one.

“Where the fuck are you?!” Simmons hissed, leaning against the wall but occasionally peaked around the edge of the doorway to see if anyone, Grif or the enemy, had appeared in the other end of the hallway. He kept a firm grasp on his rifle, ready to fire if necessary.

While Grif was still out of breath, the gasping was not near as bad this time. “You know I can’t – run that fast – so plan B.”

“Plan B? Grif, what are – _where are you_?” Simmons really hoped that Grif had just chosen to run down another hallway, he really hoped-

“C’mon, Simmons.” Grif had lowered his voice into a whisper. At least he had somehow managed to get his breathing under control. “What do I do when I have Sarge hunting my ass?”

“You hide,” the cyborg concluded breathlessly. “You find a hiding spot and hope for Sarge to walk by you-“

“You see? Plan B works just fine. _Better_. B for _better_.”

“Except he doesn’t walk past you,” Simmons continued, heart beating faster and faster. “He finds you and he tries to shoot you with his shotgun.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line until, “Oh. Yeah, I forgot that part.”

“ _You idiot_ ,” Simmons hissed. “You fucking- _get out of there_!”

“I can’t.” Grif’s whisper had now become so low that Simmons could barely hear it. “They’re in the hallway _now_.”

“ _Fuck_.” Simmons was now gripping his helmet with both his hands in desperation. He could feel his heart beat faster and fast as he heard Grif breathe in – and then hold the air inside his lungs. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.” Simmons then realized that Grif was listening to him freaking out and that Grif had to keep calm in order to stay quiet.

So Simmons followed his teammate’s example and held his breath. But then he began to wonder – should he say something? If things were about to go wrong he should say something, right? He couldn’t just let Grif-

Then there was a wonderful sound of Grif letting out a relieved breath. “Hah – they turned left before they could even come close to my spot. They’re gone now.”

Simmons allowed himself to breathe as well.

“See, what did I tell you?” Grif said, smugness dripping from his tone of voice. “Plan B is- “ There was a short pause, just enough time to make Simmons’ heart skip a beat again. Well, it would, had his heart not been an artificial replacement that would not break a rhythm like that. “ _Oh fucking shit_.”

Simmons’ legs had begun to shake by now. He blamed the strong urge to leap down the hallway and just drag Grif with him. “What?” he asked, voice lowered as if he was the one hiding. Well, chances were that the pirates were still lurking around, but Grif had said they turned left and Simmons was fairly sure he had turned right. However, Grif had always sucked at directions and-

“More assholes,” Grif whispered to him, voice very tense. “Other end of the hall. _Fuck_. They’re gonna- _Fuck_.”

Simmons understood, even if Grif had cut himself off. They were gonna spot him. They were going to spot him and they were going to shoot him and they did not have Sarge’s old shotgun and terrible aim.

Grif seemed to have come to the same conclusion with the way his breathing sped up while he still tried to make the sound as quiet as possible. Small, desperate gasps. Like the ones Simmons would have just before he had a panic attack.

But this was Grif and Grif was not supposed to sound like that. But this was Grif dying, this was the sound of Grif just before it would happen, and, oh shit, Simmons was going to listen to it, he would hear the whole thing, when they found him and pulled the trigger and-

He wanted to say something but he wasn’t sure what, wasn’t sure what could possible help this situation, until he realized that his words couldn’t get Grif out of there.

And then Simmons was running down the hallway. His own heart was beating so fast and loud that he almost managed to block out the sound of Grif’s quickened breathing. And he wasn’t sure if he did not want to hear it or if he actually needed to listen if this should be-

Through the radio he heard a gun-shot, loud and clear, and it sent a tremor through Simmons’ body. He was faintly aware that his mouth had opened to let something out – a shout, maybe, or a gasp? He wasn’t sure. He slipped on the floor for a moment as he rounded another corner but he quickly got up, leaping the last distance since he could _hear_ the fighting now, not on the radio, but on the other side of that door.

Simmons slammed the door open with his shoulder so he was ready to aim his rifle the moment he entered the fight zone –

-which turned out to be not much of a fight zone after all.

Simmons halted when he saw Carolina slam a pirate down into the floor, adding another unconscious body to the four that were already scattered around in the hallway. For a brief second the Freelancer was aiming her weapon at him before recognizing him as a teammate.

“Grif?” Simmons asked, voice only wavering a bit which was definitely caused by the adrenalin.

Church appeared on Carolina’s shoulder, looking down at the Red in confusion. “No? As in, not at all. Wrong color. And armor. And gender. And rank-”

Simmons was just about to freak out for real when he noticed movement from the corner of his eye. A few meters away from them, Grif rose from him hiding place – he had apparently squeezed himself into the space between a rather large wooden crate and the metal shelf right next to it. From Simmons’ position the orange soldier had been almost invisible until he moved, but he could see how the spot would not have worked if the enemies when the enemies came strolling down from the other end of the hallway.

“’sup,” Grif said casually, raising a hand as a greeting towards the Freelancer. “Thanks for saving my ass.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Carolina replied rather hesitant, revealing that she too had been unaware of his presence.

Church looked like he might have been about to comment on the situation but then they all turned around when they heard movement from the other side of the wall. Carolina’s battle from before had made enough noise to alert the remaining pirates that Grif had first hid from.

The orange soldier placed himself next to Simmons, adjusting his own weapon so he was ready in case the pirates suddenly burst through. Both the Reds glanced at Carolina for confirmation since they _technically_ weren’t even supposed to be here according to the original plan. If someone could show them the right way to the supplies they were supposed to retrieve they would probably be a much bigger help.

Carolina seemed to pick up on the hesitation and she looked over her shoulder to tell them, “We got it from here. You can go regroup with Wash and Tucker.”

“Yeah, run along Reds,” Church snorted in a less gentle manner.

Simmons tried not to feel offended but instead accept the opportunity they had been given. He briefly grabbed Grif’s arm to pull him in the right direction, hurrying out of the hallway before the Freelancer would begin to kick the pirates’ asses into next week.

When they made enough distance so that they could only hear the muffled noises of the fighting, Simmons turned his head and hissed, “Seriously?!”

Grif shrugged. “What?” Even now he was sounding a bit winded, obviously struggling to keep up with Simmons’ pace. And the cyborg had even slowed down for his teammate’s sake. This was getting ridiculous.

“Plan B? B for bad, Grif. Bad plan, bad logic, bad shape.”

“Well, it worked!”

“Only ‘cause Carolina appeared faster than expected! And that is called luck! You didn’t even count on that!” Simmons snapped. He continued before Grif could defend himself, “How can you even be that slow?! You were right next to me when Tucker told us to run!”

“We can’t all have freakishly long legs like you,” Grif grumbled.

Simmons stared down at him, making the height difference between them very obvious. “You have one of my legs!”

“Only parts of it!”

“This isn’t even about my – _your_ legs. This is about you being disgustingly out of shape.” His tone of voice was a little sharper than intended but it was probably caused by the fact that he was absolutely _pissed_. Grif had almost just died – from being a fatass. There had to be better ways to die than that.

Grif grumbled, “s’not that bad.”

“ _You didn’t even make it one hallway, Grif_!”

The orange soldier huffed, placing his weapon on his back so he had his arms free in order to cross them. “So what? I’m not the fastest soldier – you all know that.”

“I didn’t know it was this bad,” Simmons mumbled, his voice now reaching a normal level instead of sounded like a shriek. He slowed down his pace even further, not to sympathize with the orange soldier who was always a few steps behind him, but in order to turn his head and gain as much eye-contact as their visors allowed. “You almost got killed.”

“But I didn’t,” Grif pointed out, “’cause Plan B works.”

Simmons bit his lip as he thought about what to say. After some seconds he decided to look straight ahead and declare, “You have to lose some of that weight.”

“Sure thing, Simmons,” Grif said and rolled his eyes.

Like he had not heard that sentence before.

* * *

But this time Simmons decided it was actually going to happen. They’d been in the army for… a lot of time now. And while Grif had improved some of his skills, a lot actually, since had had managed to survive this far, it was not right for a Captain to set such a bad example when it came to personal health.

Simmons was not stupid – he knew this was not going to be easy. Which was why he made sure to make preparations, make arrangements. Most of the people had given him what he needed and then said, “Good luck.” It was most often accompanied by a snort, revealing how much faith they had in Simmons’ plan.

The last person he talked with was Bitters.

While Simmons believed in his strategy he also realized he had made a mistake with his very first sentence. As he dropped down in the seat next to the Lieutenant he said, “I need to ask for a favor.”

Bitters immediately froze, one eyebrow raised in suspicion.

Simmons could have bit off his own tongue – Bitters wasn’t really the way who walked around and offered free favors. He had to explain himself better. “I think you’ll like my idea.”

But then Bitters just looked like he was ready to bolt, mainly because he did not share many similarities with Simmons.

Simmons sighed and added quickly, “I need you to raid Grif’s snack stashes.”

Bitters stared at him for ten seconds. Then he blinked and said, “You know that counts as treason, right?”

“I’ll take the blame,” Simmons promised. “I just need to you move them. All of them. And get rid of the evidence. Yes, that means you can eat them.”

Bitters’ expression turned pleased for some seconds, revealing that he could see the advantages in the deal. A lot of advantages. So good it was almost suspicious. He narrowed his eyes at Simmons. “What are _you_ getting out of this?”

“I need to get Grif in shape. Which means he has to be put on a diet.”

“You’re…” Bitters was unable to finish his sentence due to pure disbelief. “ _You’re_ going to train Captain Grif?” He sounded amused which was never a good sign when it came from Bitters.

Simmons set his jaw. “Yes,” he said, and then added, “and it’s going to work.”

* * *

He began the plan the very next day when he sat down in front of Grif, the table between them, in the middle of the mess hall as the breakfast routine began. The orange armored soldier had put his helmet next to the tray that had been filled three slides of bread with way too much peanut butter as well as two donuts to serve as dessert.

Grif was reaching for the first piece when Simmons suddenly pulled the tray away from him. Before Grif could react, the cyborg placed his own tray in front of Grif. His teammate eyed the porridge and the single red apple in suspicion. “Simmons.”

“Grif,” Simmons replied, using the same tone.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“ _Fuck no_.”

Grif launched himself forward to snatch back his original breakfast but Simmons was too quick. He grabbed the tray, turned around on his seat, and handed it to the nearest, random soldier that was on his way to towards the serving tables to grab his own breakfast. “Here,” Simmons said, shoving the tray into his hands.

The soldier thanked him, sounding very confused, but then Simmons waved him off so he could return to his staring competition with Grif. He did not as much as blink. Neither did Grif who now looked very pissed. “Did you just steal my food?”

“I replaced your food,” Simmons corrected him smugly, “with something better. This is actually good for you.”

Grif sent Simmons’ choice of breakfast a disgusted glance before pushing the tray away from himself. “I’m not eating that.”

“Well, then you’ll be training on an empty stomach.”

“What the fuck are-“ Grif cut himself off, narrowing his eyes. “We first have personal training with Wash _after_ lunch.”

“Well, your training begins earlier.”

“ _My_ -?!” Grif looked like he was choking on something. It was very hard for Simmons to keep a straight face while looking at his friend’s flustered expression. “What the fuck have you done, Simmons?!”

Simmons folded his hands. “Simple. We are getting you in shape.”

“You can shove your _we_ up somewhere else. _I’m_ not doing shit.”

The cyborg did not as much as flinch. “I’ve reserved the training hall. I’ll be your instructor. If you do not join me willingly or if you refuse to follow my orders, both Carolina and Wash will replace me. Two Freelancers. That will be right on your ass,” Simmons said without missing a beat. He was not trying to show how proud he was of his plan.

“They don’t have the time for that,” Grif said but he did not sound that confident in his own words.

“The last mission proved just how much needed this is. They’ll find the time,” Simmons said dryly. “But only if you force them to. You can choose to stick with my presence.”

Grif’s eyes darted around, as if considering whether bolting from the table was worth it. But the threat of sending two Freelancers after him seemed to have worked. He remained where he was sitting, staring at Simmons with a scrutinizing glance. “What the fuck are you up to, Simmons?”

Simmons glared back before hiding his face with his helmet. “This is happening,” he replied shortly. “Either you eat that or we’ll just head for the hall now.”

Grif scowled, looking very much like a displeased child, and did not as much as reach for the food.

“Fine,” Simmons said, gesturing for his teammate to follow him out of the mess hall. “But then don’t complain about an empty stomach later.”

“Fuck you, Simmons.”

* * *

“I hate you,” Grif declared when his arms gave up and he slammed his face against the ground. Not finding the strength to lift his head, he muttered into the floor. “I hate you. I hate you so much. You’re evil. Why are you doing this to me?”

“Stop whining.” Simmons crouched right next to his head. “You didn’t even manage ten pushups.”

“That’s right. I’m done. Good effort for today, I say! Great work! Now tomorrow, we can see if I can reach eight. And then, maybe, Wednesday we can dare to say ten! I call that a plan!”

Simmons snorted, “Please. We haven’t even been here for half an hour.”

“I want to go home!” Grif wailed in defeat.

“Okay, get up,” Simmons said, straightening out his legs before offering Grif a hand.

He eyed it in suspicion before accepting the help. “We’re done?” he repeated in disbelief, hope staining his voice.

Simmons nodded. “With this exercise. Let’s move on to running laps.”

“I hate you so much.”

* * *

“Faster, Grif,” Simmons said, slowing down his own pace to he was running next to the orange armored soldier. He looked like he was about to fall over, heaving heavily after air. Simmons tried again, “I know you can run faster – I’ve seen you when the when they announce extra rations in the mess hall. Try sprinting.”

“Fuck – sprinting,” Grif wheezed.

Simmons looked him over, trying to figure out if he was about to faint or not. When he decided that Grif was not that bad off yet, he said, “I know you can do this.”

“You want – me to – sprint?” There was a slight whine after each pant. “Fine,” he somehow found the strength to snarl. “I’m sprinting – the fuck – out of here.”

And then Grif actually fastened his pace. Simmons was almost impressed. Despite the fact that Grif was clearly aiming for the exit.

Simmons halted, watching the scene with his hands on his hips.

Grif slammed against the door before placing one hand on the wall for support. He then tore at the door handle and froze in terror when he realized it did not work. “You locked it?!” He spun around to scream at Simmons who was slowly, very nonchalantly walking towards him.

“Just until we’re finished,” Simmons promised, as if that statement helped.

Grif paled beneath his helmet. “You’re sick, Simmons. _Sick_. You’ve lost your fucking mind – _again_.”

* * *

“Okay, water break,” Simmons announced. He went to pick up the bottles while Grif let the hand weights fall. He then let out a sigh that seemed heavier than the weights themselves.

He crawled backwards until he could rest against the wall. He fumbled a bit with the clasps until he could throw away his helmet, revealing his sweaty face. When Simmons appeared, offering a bottle of water, he sent him a displeased glare. “Are you kidding me? After all this and you’re not even giving me a beer?”

Grif accepted the bottle nonetheless, and while he drank, Simmons made the rules clear. “No alcohol, no snacks, no cigarettes, no unhealthy food in any varieties.”

That caused Grif’s jaw to drop. He struggled to find words until he eventually gasped out, “Okay, seriously, what did I do? Why are you this pissed off? Is this because I made fun of you behind your back? Or the stuff I did with your calculator?”

“This is not…” Simmons trailed off, eyes suddenly widening. “What did you do to my calculator?”

Grif pretended he did not hear him and continued, “I mean, you’re basically killing me. For no reason. You’re worse than Sarge, and that might be _the_ worst thing I’ve ever said about you.”

Simmons settled down next to him. “I’m not killing you. I’m saving you.”

“No, this is definitely how nearly dying feels like. It hurts, Simmons. And it’s exhausting. Just what the fuck are you trying to prove?!”

Reaching up to remove his own helmet, Simmons showed his frown. “I’m getting you in shape. That’s not a crime, Grif.”

“I already have a shape!” Grif whined, slamming down the bottom of his bottle against the floor in frustration. “It’s round. And soft. And you do not seem to mind that when we’re cuddling.”

That last sentence caused Simmons’ cheeks to turn red. He looked away from Grif. “Well, that’s… That has nothing to do with this. I’m trying to _help_ you. You’ll thank me later.”

“No, _later_ I’ll be dead from a heart attack and I’ll spend the rest of eternity haunting your sorry ass.”

“That’s not funny,” Simmons said.

Grif turned his head to stare directly at him. “That’s right, Simmons. This is not funny. This sucks. This sucks a lot.”

* * *

“Where did you learn to pick a lock?” Jensen asked, curiosity and worry tinting her voice. The Lieutenants had tried to peak into the training hall when they discovered the door was locked, and just a few seconds later Bitters had crouched in front of it with a lockpick in his hand.

He shrugged. “We’re all taught it in Gold Team.”

“Which does make sense due your position as the infiltration team,” Smith agreed. “However, that does not explain why you’re carrying lockpicks outside missions.”

“Force of habit,” Bitters replied quickly, hoping to end that conversation there.

Palomo was resting against the wall, checking the adjustments on the hand-held video camera he had invested in after they had their helmet cam taken from them. The Lieutenant had insisted on continuing his v-logs, and when Bitters had revealed Simmons’ plan, someone had got the idea to film the training sessions. The videos would be sure to entertain them later, if they knew their Captains well enough. “Are we sure they’re still in there? It’s been forever since breakfast.”

“It would be impressive if Captain Grif has managed to keep going for so long,” Jensen said. “But maybe the door is locked ‘cause they’re done for today.”

“Only one way to find out,” Bitters replied and then they all heard a satisfying _click_. He slowly pushed the door open to peak in. Three other helmets appeared over his own, Palomo holding up the camera.

But had they believed they could do this without being noticed, they were wrong. Only a few seconds later and both Grif and Simmons were scrambling their way towards the door, trying to reach it first.

“Holy fuck,” Grif exclaimed in relief and raced towards the door with a surprising speed.

“No filming!” Simmons shrieked at the Lieutenants.

Pushing him out of the way, Grif took the lead and called out, “This is torture! Call the police!”

“Chorus has no police,” Simmons reminded him. “We’re the authority!”

“Fuck this!” Grif managed to elbow him in the stomach, slipping out of his grasp, and then stormed out of the exit. The Lieutenants had to jump back in order not to get plowed away.

Bitters slipped, landing on his butt, and watched his Captain flee down the hallway with an amused grin. “Hey, if Grif asks, we definitely did this to help him escape.” He then noticed the shadow falling next to him, and he looked up to see Simmons hovering above him. “However,” he quickly added, “this was of course an accident.”

“We didn’t mean to interrupt, sir,” Jensen said with an apologetic tone.

When Simmons turned his head silently to stare at Palomo’s video camera, the Lieutenant laughed nervously and said, “We, uhm, thought it could make a good inspirational video for the troops?”

“Well,” Simmons said, staring at the end of the hallway where Grif had disappeared, “it doesn’t matter. We’re done for today. Apparently.”

* * *

Grif did not show up for dinner which was not a good sign. Simmons waited, mindlessly stabbing his own food with his fork. Grif’s comment about a heart attack had not slipped his mind, and suddenly his teammate’s presence was a lot more unnerving.

As he left his chair with the decision to check up on him, Simmons mentally debated whether or not to bring a donut as a peace offering. Grif had done a good job today – well, he had at least survived the training until he had managed to escape. But on the other hand, Grif could easily view the gift as a sign of weakness and find a way to manipulate Simmons to give in even more.

So he walked to their shared room empty-handed, but he had prepared a speech as he was about to step inside. Chances were that Grif was in there sulking, and that was why he had skipped dinner in the mess hall.

But Simmons could not see if that was the case because he could not open the door. “Grif!”

“What?”

Well, the asshole was alive at least, but he definitely sounded pissed.

“Let me in!”

“ _No_!”

Since this was his own room, Simmons tried to unlock the door, only to find out that it still wouldn’t budge. He slammed his shoulder against it. “Wha- Have you fucking barricaded the door?!”

“Yes. Now go away.”

“Grif!” Simmons yelled again, trying to push open the door with force. It only gave out an inch. “Stop acting like a child and let me in! You’re overreacting!”

“I’m- _I’m_ the one overreacting?! Oh, fuck you!”

“I was trying to help!” Simmons spat through gritted teeth. “You _know_ you’re out of shape. I was saving you!”

“You were killing me! I’m never moving again!”

“For fuck’s sake, Grif!” Simmons slammed his forehead against the door. “You almost died yesterday! Do you not care about that at all?!”

“No! I’m a bit more concerned with how I’m dying _right now_.”

“You’re not dying! You’re being saved! That’s the opposite of dying!”

“It feels like I’m dying.” Grif’s voice was no longer a shout, but instead a muffled complain. There was a whine to it as well. “My limbs are falling apart.”

“You’re just sore,” Simmons comforted. “That’s good! That means it’s working! If you just-“

“ _No_. No ‘ _just_ ’, Simmons. What the fuck do you want from me? I’m a fat draftee and half of my limbs weren’t even mine to begin with. You can’t just- I’m not a super soldier, you get that?! This isn’t working out! I hurt, I’m exhausted and you’re being a bitch. So just drop it. Okay?”

“What am I supposed to do?” Simmons yelled at the door. “Just ignore the fact that you’re constantly this close from being killed, just because you can’t run fast enough? You can’t just count on Carolina to show up every time you’re about to get your ass kicked! You can’t just count on me to rush in there, you can’t-“

“Wait. That was your plan?” The anger seemed to have disappeared from Grif’s voice, leaving surprise and something that sounded like disbelief instead. “You were going to freaking rush them? Are you fucking suicidal?”

“Well, what did you think I was doing back there? I couldn’t just let them –“ Simmons stopped himself. There were memories from that day that he would rather forget. “Look, we’re a team. I’m not letting you kill yourself like that. So yeah, you can hate my ass but-“

“Just… Wait.”

Simmons could hear the groans from the other side of the wall, and he guessed that meant Grif was trying to leave the bed. A minute’s worth of struggling and Grif had managed to move the desk away from the door, letting Simmons into the room.

“Right,” Grif said. “Now you’re not arguing with a door.”

“Thanks,” Simmons said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess.” He watched as Grif slowly limped his way back to the bed. His movements looked very painful. “That bad?” Simmons had to ask, voice very gentle.

Grif looked over his shoulder to send him a sour glance. “I’m not moving for a week. You want me to run around that hall one more fucking time, you’re gonna have to drag me.”

“Okay, so maybe today was a bit… extreme.” Grif’s snort to that statement caused Simmons to sigh. He looked around the room while his teammate slowly lowered himself into the bed, groaning every second. “You want some painkillers?” he offered.

Grif opened one eye, his head on the pillow. “You could give me a massage. I say I’ve earned it.”

Slightly flustered, Simmons tried to nod. “Yeah, I guess- I could- Wait, just scoot over.” He sat down heavily after moving Grif’s legs so there was space enough. Placing his hands in his lap, he said, “You do have an unhealthy way of living. And I want to change that.”

Grif, with some trouble, rolled over to lie on his back so he could stare at him. “ _This_ ,” he said very sternly, “isn’t working out. So forget it. Or you’ll be sleeping in Donut’s room.”

“I don’t want _that_. I just- want you to stay alive. I guess.”

“Okay, here’s a tip: how about not fucking killing me then?!”

Simmons sighed again, running a hand through his hair. “You could lose some weight. And you _should_ try to work on your shape. And you know that. Plan B… Plan B just isn’t working. For me. It’s not working for me.”

“So maybe I overestimated Plan B a little,” Grif revealed as he began to fiddle with his thumbs. “I mean, I didn’t really count on you being stupid enough to run straight into gunfire. That isn’t – that’s not _my_ plan.”

“What did you expect me to do? Just listen as you-“ He cut himself off with a sharp intake of air. Refusing to look at Grif any longer, he turned his head to stare at the wall.

Grif, sensing that Simmons was getting teary-eyed, casually put his hand on top of his. “That shit didn’t happen so don’t fucking stress about it.”

“Well, what about next time?” Simmons let their fingers be interlocked.

“I’ll be running alongside you. If today’s pain didn’t pay out, I’m going to be really disappointed. That’s like, robbing me. Robbing my joy of life.”

Simmons gave him a sad smile. For a brief second he let his glance fall upon Grif’s stomach. “It… might take a few more sessions.”

“Ugh.”

“But I suppose we could just stick with Wash’ training. If you would just actually make an effort, it might work. And it wouldn’t hurt you to cut down on the food.”

Grif glared at him, obviously debating whether it was worth it or not. “I still want my donut,” he finally declared.

“One, then.”

“And you’ll stop being an asshole?” Grif asked. He slowly freed his hand from Simmons’ grasp and instead he let his fingers trail up the cyborg’s arm. He could see the goosebumps appear on the pale skin.

Simmons glared at him. “Well, I wasn’t the only asshole today – Oomph.” Grif’s hand closed around his forearm, and suddenly the cyborg was dragged down to share the bed with him. The Hawaiian shifted so he was partially lying on top of Simmons. “Grif.”

“You better get used to this ‘cause I’m not moving the next week,” he muttered, mouth close to Simmons’ throat. “Plus, you still have to make up for reliving my horrible memories from Basic.”

“Oh god, I did act like Drill Sergeant John, didn’t I?” Simmons realized in horror.

Grif forced the cyborg’s body to relax by wrapping an arm around his waist. “A bit squeakier Sergeant John, but yes. Today was very much like Basic. You asshole.”

“Except this,” Simmons said, giving into the snuggling.

“Yes,” Grif agreed and placed a soft kiss on his lips. “This is a bit different from Basic. Thank god.”

**Author's Note:**

> Simmons is not a good instructor. He has the best intentions but that’s not how to properly train someone. I really like to believe that Grif still struggles from the aftermath of the surgery, mainly because I like to be able to relate to him. This was all heavily inspired by my own life, where me PE teachers believed that I should just keep training harder and harder even though I really sucked at the subject. And then it was discovered I had a severe handicap in my legs, and by that point I was too old for the surgeries to work at the fullest, which just caused a unanimously “Oh fuck.” Never been able to have PE ever since. Moral of the story, readers – just please, take care of yourself. If you are constantly in pain and you suspect it’s not just from the strain of the training, do yourself a favor and please get it checked out. Take care of your health.
> 
> So with this 2 out of my 13 planned one-shots for this year are complete. Not counting the two prompt one-shots that I’ve also managed to write, plus I’m trying to plan a sequel to that dog one-shot ‘cause I really liked the concept. Point is – I’m keeping up the pace, so expect one or two one-shots per month. That would at least keep me happy.
> 
> I hope you like this piece! Thanks for reading! <3


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